


Right Here

by sardonicsmiley



Category: Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-08
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley
Summary: Donald says, "You built a blanket fort," just to see if it makes more sense spoken out loud.





	Right Here

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing is so insanely sweet that there are not actually words for it, you know? So, not what I'm used to writing. Oddly, in my currently stressed out and highly upset state, writing this made me feel a lot better. And now I have to go back to work. There goes the feel better.

"Tough day?"

Grant chirps the words the second Donald's through the door, bouncing up off of the cushions that had been on the couch when Donald last saw them. The comforter from Donald's bed is currently stretched from the back of the couch, over the coffee table, one corner tucked under the base of the television set. Donald blinks, taking in the living room, and Grant beams expectantly up at him, vibrating a little in place.

Donald shakes his head, forcing a smile, pointing out, "You were there, Grant."

Grant bobs his head agreeably, tugging on Donald's jacket as he does, leaning in to whisper secret soft, "I could hear Jack yelling from my office." He pats Donald's shoulder, sliding his hand down Donald's chest, wrapping around Donald before Donald can even register that he's going for a hug. Again.

By now Donald is sure he should be used to the other man's tactile fascination. But he's having a little bit of trouble processing it. It's quite possible that he's been touched more in the time that Grant's moved in with him than he was through his entire childhood.

Grant is squeezing him now, his head tucked up under Donald's chin, warm and surprisingly strong. Donald clears his throat, patting at Donald's shoulders until the man shifts back, blinking up at Donald, beaming brightly and grabbing at Donald's arms, tugging him forward, saying, "So I built this. Quiet. Away from all the sadness."

And somehow, Grant ends up manhandling Donald down onto the floor, until he's huddled up against the back of his couch, the air heavy, thick, and dim under the comforter. Donald says, "You built a blanket fort," just to see if it makes more sense spoken out loud.

It doesn't. But Grant answers with a giddy, "Just for you!" in any case, shifting around in the half-light beside Donald. Donald catches an elbow against his ribs, one of Grant's knees knocking into his side, and then the other man is settling, curled up against Donald, his head on Donald's shoulder.

This should, Donald is sure, be very odd. It doesn't particularly feel odd, listening to Grant's breathing slow down a little bit, feeling the quilt resting against the top of his head, because he's slightly too tall to fit in here properly.

After a few seconds, Grant starts humming, rocking a little back and forth, never able to sit still for any respectable amount of time.

It's a little stuffy under the comforter. Dark. And Donald can hear every little shift Grant makes, their clothes brushing together, the rasp of Grant's beard against his shirt. He's surprised to feel himself relax, tension easing out of the back of his neck all in a rush, his shoulders dropping just a little bit as he leans his head back against the couch, eyes closing.

Grant makes a happy little sound, twisting, squirming closer and wrapping an arm around Donald's waist, his head more on Donald's chest now than anything. And here, beneath the comforter, feeling sleepy and heavy and relaxed and _good_ for the first time since he'd walked into the office to find Jack ranting and railing, it just makes sense for Donald to wrap an arm around Grant's back.

Donald says, "Thank you," soft and absent, hesitating to disturb the almost-silence they've fallen into.

Grant nods, sharp and fast, almost cracking the top of his head against Donald's jaw. His voice is soft and happy, a puff of warmth through Donald's shirt, "It's very important to make the proper offerings to the gods," which doesn't make a lot of sense, but not everything Grant says has to make sense.

So Donald just says, "Right, of course," leaning his head down to rest his cheek against Grant's soft hair, keeping his eyes closed.

* * *


End file.
